


Our broken pieces

by featherbow12



Series: Boys in Love [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherbow12/pseuds/featherbow12
Summary: Arthur returns to Camelot with haunted eyes and jagged edges, flinching at the sound of his name. Merlin stitches his broken pieces back together.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Boys in Love [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1850518
Comments: 19
Kudos: 143





	Our broken pieces

As soon as the first horses come into view, Merlin knows.

For one thing, there are too few. He counts twenty, thirty, maybe fifty horses worth of men missing, the ranks thin and straggled where red cloaks should billow wild with each swell of the wind. For another, there is no majestic timbre to the click of hooves, like a victorious army marching in unison. No, the clacking is just that—sound, scattered and disjointed, little more than the tired steps of weary men returning home.

Tomorrow, Merlin will find out the names of the men who died. Tomorrow, he will stand in the throne room clothed in black and bow his head in honor of their sacrifice.

In this moment, however, his thoughts are for one Knight alone.

His eyes strain, keen, darting from one head to another, searching between men and behind them, selfish, selfish heart beating frantically. There is a moment, when he does not see the familiar outline anywhere in the first row of Knights, that all the breath leaves his body. _He didn’t come back._ Merlin’s legs begin to buckle, numb, panic scalding the back of his throat like acid—

There. Golden-bronze hair, glowing in the twilight. Broad shoulders, stiff with tension and stooped with loss, but unmistakable.

He breathes again.

The white fades from his knuckles as Merlin’s clenched fists relax, the images that have haunted him for the past month slowly seeping away. Amidst the sharp, ballooning relief, he remembers to mutter a prayer to the gods he only believes in for the favor they seem to show Arthur.

_Thank you for bringing him home._

With relief crashing over him in waves, it isn’t until the first row of Knights dismount that he thinks to wonder why Arthur isn’t among them.

Custom dictates a King to ride at the head of his men, especially when riding into the citadel. It’s a show of authority, but also practicality—it wouldn’t do well for a King to get lost amidst the muck. And Arthur is the kind of noble idiot who rides headlong into danger as the first horse of the lot. He certainly wouldn’t retreat into the ranks of his men now, when they are arriving at the gates of safety.

The first tingles of fear crawl down Merlin’s spine.

It’s a feeling that only intensifies when Arthur finally dismounts and comes into view. Almost by instinct, Merlin’s lips curve into a smile when he catches sight of those familiar blue eyes, but Arthur’s hair is still matted with blood and grime, relics of the battlefield that should’ve been long washed away, and his expression is as cold and impassive as marble.

The smile slips.

Arthur strides past him and ascends the castle steps, every movement sharp and measured. Merlin watches as he turns to face the crowd—cloak falling regally across one shoulder, chainmail and armor glinting despite clearly having taken a beating—and thinks, a little wildly, that Arthur has no need for a crown. Head raised high and proud, he looks, every inch of him, a King.

“We are victorious,” Arthur announces, and he _sounds_ like a King, too, strong and majestic and powerful, each word reverberating out through the square. “Lot’s men have been defeated. Our lands are safe and our people may sleep in peace tonight.”

The gathered citizens of Camelot cheer at the declaration. Merlin allows himself a momentary smile, but can’t muster more than that, because the victorious words only sound hollow to his ears. Arthur has always been a good speaker, and he doubts anyone else picked up on it, but none of them know Arthur the way that he does.

A lump of dread settles deep in his gut. He hears a King but he doesn’t hear _Arthur_ , and that’s enough to tell him something has gone terribly wrong.

When a cry of _Long live the King!_ rings out across the cobblestones, Merlin doesn’t miss, even from fifteen steps below, the way Arthur’s whole body tenses.

A shoulder brushes his, and Merlin tears his gaze away. It’s Gwaine, a little worse for wear, not a trace of a smile curled around his lips, but alive. Blessedly, blessedly alive.

“It’s good to see you, Merlin,” Gwaine says, and the warmth in his voice is genuine, though it’s devoid of any kind of happiness.

“You as well.” He eyes Gwaine critically, allowing himself to relax just a fraction more when he doesn’t see any serious injuries. “I’m glad you’re back in one piece.”

“You and me both.” His face remains unreadable, but a muscle twitches in Gwaine’s jaw like he’s trying to gather the right words, and Merlin waits. “Keep an eye on the Princess, will you?” Gwaine asks eventually.

 _Always do_ is on the tip of his tongue, along with _he wouldn’t last a day without me_ , but Merlin swallows down both responses and merely nods. _Princess._ The barb is tempered with fondness more often than not these days, but even still, today it sounds uncharacteristically gentle.

His fear grows.

“How many, Gwaine?” he asks, and knows there’s no need to clarify. There will only be one number in Gwaine’s mind, one number etched on the inside of Arthur’s heart, and as much as Merlin may not mourn them until tomorrow, it would be cowardly to sleep beside Arthur tonight without knowing the magnitude of the sacrifice that made it possible.

“Fifty-two.” Gwaine’s voice is quiet, lest the citizens of Camelot assembled just paces away overhear. “Good men. Brave men.”

There’s a certain ring to his words that catches Merlin’s ear, and his breath hangs like a man beneath an executioner, waiting for the death blow to fall.

“Leon was among them.”

The bottom drops out of his stomach. “Oh, gods.”

There is pain held deep in Gwaine’s eyes, now that he knows to look for it—all of Arthur’s Knights share a bond that runs deeper than friendship, deeper than duty, deeper than blood, but none more so than those who declared their allegiance around that ancient Round Table—and it’s a kind of anguish that bleeds through even the staunchest of stoic resolves.

Merlin looks up, almost instinctively, to where Arthur stood so gallantly just a moment ago, and sees only the barest curl of a red cloak disappearing into the citadel.

**

As much as every bone in his body feels a pull in the same direction, craves to abandon his duties and find Arthur in his chambers, there’s work to be done. Too many Knights have come back injured for Gaius to handle alone, and fifty-two cannot afford to become more, so he forces himself to stay back and put what little healing he’s learned to use. But there’s a rote, almost mechanical rhythm to it all—assess, make a poultice, clean, bandage—that allows his mind to wander, and it never strays far from blue eyes and shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the crown.

The Knights are all subdued. Gwaine is mirthless, spiritless, as he wanders around the medical tent, arm draped in a sling, and speaks quiet words to some of the more wounded Knights, distracting them momentarily from their physical pain if not their sorrow. He lingers at Kay’s bedside, and Merlin doesn’t want to think about what that means.

Lancelot is unharmed—Merlin muttered up another prayer, when he saw the familiar face enter the tent—but Lancelot doesn’t smile when they embrace, only accepts the greeting with stiff arms and an even stiffer jaw. Percival and Elyan are nowhere to be seen—Merlin hopes desperately they are with Arthur—though it is Leon’s absence that is felt most keenly.

The First Knight of Camelot would not have been far from the medical tent in a moment like this, his calming presence itself an invaluable support to the ranks, and Merlin idly wonders which of the Knights will be given that title and those honors, now. It matters little, anyways. It will take years for another to garner the trust Arthur had in Leon, and he doubts the new First Knight’s role will be much more than ceremonial.

“Do you need me still, Gaius?” he asks when it feels like he’s bandaged the whole army, though the steady stream of men coming through the tent flap indicates otherwise.

Gaius raises an eyebrow, but must see something of the desperation Merlin feels in his face, because his words are kind when he replies. “I’m afraid I do, Merlin. Though if you are worried for Arthur, you need not be. Lancelot tells me the King was not badly injured.”

“Right.” But it is not Arthur’s physical injuries that worry him.

**

When he does finally make it to Arthur’s chambers, several hours later, he finds Arthur standing at the window still clad in his chainmail.

He knows Arthur senses his presence, if only because he’s yet to see _anyone_ manage to sneak up on Arthur since his coronation—a King cannot afford to be taken unawares—but the fire rumbling in the hearth has dwindled to mere kindling by the time either of them speak.

It is Merlin who breaks first, of course. The silence feels heavy, like a crushing weight all on its own, and it keeps his feet rooted to the floor even as the words tumble out before he can stop them. “Thank you for coming home.”

It should be the wrong thing to say, it probably is the wrong thing to say, but of all the thoughts in his head, this one looms largest. Perhaps a better man would not feel such unabashed relief at having Arthur alive before him, knowing that many men died to make it so, but Merlin has never thought of himself as much of a good man where his King is concerned.

His liege, his lover, his soul.

He is selfish, he knows that—but Merlin thinks everyone would be if they saw the truth of Arthur Pendragon’s heart, strong and golden despite its cracks, if they realized that for all its noble intentions, it’s just as fragile as any other, one well-aimed blow capable of rendering it still forever.

When no response appears forthcoming, he tries again, still only a few steps into the room—it feels wrong, somehow, to move farther inside and disrupt the eerie stillness. “It’s been hours. You haven’t undressed?” The casual tone in his voice is forced, but Arthur doesn’t even seem to have heard the words, never mind the tone.

Instead, the silence stretches on. Arthur’s grief is a suffocating, almost tangible presence in the room. Then—

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur whispers finally, and it’s something of a non-sequitur except for how his eyes are damp and glassy when he turns, and Merlin surges forward to close the gap between them like his very name is a summons—it is, of course it is, what else could it be when Arthur says it like that, soft and broken.

They don’t kiss—that isn’t what either of them need. He just brushes a thumb carefully, reverently, across Arthur’s cheek, a hair’s breadth above the stubble that’s grown over the month-long campaign, and feels something unfurl in his chest. To have him here, warm and solid and alive, is a feeling beyond words—some nights, even that seemed like a fool’s dream.

There are tears in Arthur’s eyes that Merlin knows won’t fall, not while he’s clad in the Pendragon cloak and chainmail, a King more than a man. But there will be time enough for that later, once his responsibilities have been discharged for the day and he can afford a moment of vulnerability, so Merlin doesn’t press.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sire,” he says instead, and isn’t prepared for the way Arthur visibly _flinches_ in response.

There is a silent plea written all across Arthur’s face, and Merlin doesn’t know what it means, only that he never wants to see Arthur flinch like that, _ever_.

“Arthur?” he asks quietly, but Arthur has already pulled away, walking past him toward the door. “Wait—” Merlin can’t explain the itch to rip all the armor off Arthur and feel the skin beneath the metal, but he can’t help it either. “At least let me take off your armor.”

Arthur doesn’t reply, but he pauses mid-stride, and Merlin takes that as his cue. He makes quick work of the armor, tossing the different parts aside with a carelessness he normally wouldn’t employ, because every piece that comes off moves him farther from a warrior and closer to _Arthur_. His Arthur, who bleeds when he’s wounded and has crinkles by his eyes when he smiles and always looks just a little bit stunned when Merlin says _I love you_.

By the time Arthur stands clad in nothing but trousers, several minor wounds on his arm and torso are apparent, but it’s clear he isn’t seriously injured.

He’ll have to send up another prayer. Merlin wonders if the gods might soon tire of him, at this rate, but the relief bursting in his chest feels like nothing short of divine grace.

Still, Arthur’s face is drawn and tight, eyes faraway like he’s seeing something other than the frankly spotless state of his chambers—Merlin has had nothing better to do than clean them of late—and that just won’t do.

Merlin considers for a moment, then trails his fingers lightly back and forth across Arthur’s chest, soft enough to tickle, until he’s rewarded with a faint smile. Words can be difficult, but this, Arthur’s skin warm beneath his fingertips, this is easier than breathing.

“You came home,” he whispers, the words bubbling up again from somewhere he can’t stop. Merlin traces a puckered slash running across Arthur’s left flank—it’s pink and ridged, mostly healed—and his chest goes unbearably tight, squeezing the breath from his lungs, because just a few inches higher and—

“I promised.” Arthur’s voice is no louder than a breath.

He rests his hand against the steady beat of Arthur’s heart, and the feel of it, strong and sure, melts away much of his fear.

Arthur’s fingers come up to interlace with his own. They’re bruised and lined with fresh blisters, but the contours are achingly familiar, the callouses in the right places, and Merlin holds on as tight as he dares.

Just a few inches higher and he would’ve lost this forever.

 _I love you_ , he wants to say. _I’m so sorry. I missed you. I’m never sending you to war again. You did everything you could_. But he saves it for all later—later, when he can hold Arthur under the covers and press kisses to his scars and coax out the ghosts pooled like shadows in his eyes—and just holds on to the fragile peace of this moment.

Then there’s a scream in the distance—a widow’s wail, splintered with grief—and Arthur stiffens, hand falling away to his side.

“I need to check on my men,” Arthur says tonelessly, and his expression is hooded once more as he throws on a tunic, laces still undone, and disappears into the corridor.

Merlin lets out a long breath and follows.

**

Somehow, Arthur is brilliant.

It shouldn’t surprise him anymore, but it still does—Merlin stands beside Gaius and watches as Arthur greets every Knight in the medical tent by name, kneeling down so their eyes meet his squarely, and though Merlin can’t make out Arthur’s words to each one, he hears the strong, steadfast sincerity in them just fine.

Merlin can only guess at what it must be costing him, but Arthur shows no trace of his earlier vulnerability as he speaks to his men. His gaze is sharp and clear, shoulders straight, and it’s only the way his eyes keep darting to the right, like he expects someone to be standing there, that gives any indication of the personal loss he’s borne.

Their faces are brighter by the time he straightens to take his leave, glimmering with a hope or peace or determination that wasn’t there just minutes ago. The Knights look to him for strength as they heal, as they grieve the men they have lost, and that is what he gives them.

 _Who gives you strength?_ Merlin wants to ask, but doesn’t think he can bear to hear the silence that would serve as Arthur’s answer.

Only after Arthur has made the rounds and spoken to each of his Knights in turn does he come to Gaius for a report.

Merlin can’t help but notice how he appears to wilt with every step he takes toward them, eyes clouding over and shoulders sagging now that the gazes of his men are elsewhere. By the time he comes to a stop and raises his chin in a silent _let’s hear it_ , his brow is creased with a fear that seems to radiate off him in waves.

Gaius must sense it as well, because he skips any pleasantries. “Most of the men have suffered only minor wounds. They will make full recoveries with some treatment and rest.”

Arthur’s answering smile is wan but relieved. “I’m very glad to hear that. Thank you, Gaius.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, sire,” Gaius replies with a respectful incline of his head.

Arthur nods in acknowledgment. “They were good men, and it was their sacrifice that won the war. We all mourn their loss.”

By all standards it’s a good response, one befitting a King—polite, measured, stately.

But Merlin doesn’t miss his flinch. _Sire._ It’s more subtle, this time, but still absolutely unmistakable.

“I must caution you, Arthur”—another flinch, brief as a blink—“there is one Knight who remains in grave condition.” Gaius’s voice is soft, but still not soft enough to cushion the blow, and Arthur’s expression falls.

“It’s Kay, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so. His wound is badly infected, and none of my poultices have had any effect.”

“He is far too young,” Arthur mutters quietly, almost to himself. His voice sharpens. “Are we simply to stand and watch and wait for him to die?”

His words are laced with a pain too raw to be anything but real, and Merlin’s horror grows at the thought of how many men Arthur must have watched die just like that on the battlefield in the past month.

Merlin glances to the cot on the far wall where Kay lies motionless, only the subtle rise and fall of his chest any indication of there being breath left in his body. “There must be something we can do.”

He sends Gaius a meaningful look, but Gaius shakes his head minutely. _No magic._

“If he has family—”

Arthur cuts Gaius off with a smile so mirthless it turns Merlin’s blood cold. “Kay is surrounded by his family.”

And they leave it at that.

**

Kay passes within the hour.

The Knights who are able surround his cot when he begins to thrash with the pain, their faces awash with grief as his final moments near. Kay was Gwaine’s squire, back when he was little more than a kid desperate to join the ranks—though he doesn’t look much more than a kid now, Merlin realizes, a boyish curve to his face and limbs where they haven’t yet chiseled into muscle—and there are tears in Gwaine’s eyes as he kneels beside Kay and clasps his forearm.

A final farewell.

The other Knights make way for him, and Merlin has a sinking feeling this is another tradition borne out of the war, that fifty-two Knights received a deathbed vigil just like this to send them into the afterlife with as much honor and ceremony as a battlefield could afford.

Then Kay lets out a low moan between clenched teeth that sounds deafening in the silence, and he hears Gwaine choke on a sob.

Merlin’s stomach twists into knots.

If magic could save Kay, in that moment, it wouldn’t have been a choice at all. Come what may—beheading, a pyre, banishment—he would’ve accepted it all, if only to spare these Knights, _his_ Knights, any more pain.

As it is, Gwaine is trembling but he doesn’t let go of Kay, their forearms still clasped together. “He’s just a kid,” Gwaine whispers, voice breaking.

Merlin feels Gaius’s hand touch his shoulder, a silent warning, and it’s maybe the only thing that keeps him from springing forward with golden eyes just to try, just on the off chance he can produce a miracle.

“Merlin,” Gaius hisses, low enough that nobody else can hear. _Magic won’t save him_ , his tone says where his words cannot.

Merlin shrugs off his hand but doesn’t move. _I know._

“I never wanted a squire when Kay was forced on me, but now I’d give anything just to have him dent my armor one more—”

Gwaine breaks off when Kay lets out another guttural moan, and suddenly Arthur is stepping forward and kneeling beside him. “Let me,” he says quietly.

Gwaine seems to sag in relief, silently withdrawing his arm. Arthur replaces it with his own, clasping Kay’s forearm even as Gwaine stands and turns away.

“I can’t watch this,” Gwaine mumbles, and his cheeks are wet as he shoulders past Merlin toward the exit.

Merlin’s heart aches.

Minutes later, Kay lets out a long, rasping breath and falls still.

Arthur bows his head, and the other Knights follow suit, even those still bedridden on different cots around the tent. Several minutes pass before Arthur gently rests Kay’s arm by his side and speaks. “Farewell, my friend. May you find the peace and happiness you deserve.”

And then there is only silence.

**

By the time they catch a moment alone, it’s unreasonably late.

Gaius refuses to let Arthur leave the medical tent without applying three different poultices and two bandages to treat his various cuts. Merlin can’t quite stop the fond smile on his face as Arthur grumbles more for the show of it than anything but readily sits through the whole affair, even nodding in the appropriate places as Gaius rattles off a list of wound care instructions.

Merlin doubts Arthur is actually digesting any of Gaius’s words, but that’s what he’s for, anyways.

He forgets, sometimes, that Gaius has known Arthur longer than Merlin has known either of them, but it’s abundantly clear now in the way Gaius’s eyebrows are wrinkled in concern and he smooths Arthur’s bandages over two separate times before pronouncing him fit to leave.

“Thank you, Gaius. I’m sure Merlin will take good care of these.” Arthur lifts a bandaged arm with something bordering on a smile.

Gaius huffs, but shoots Merlin a stern look that suggests the physician expects him to do exactly that.

Lancelot accompanies them on their way out of the medical tent to discuss funeral preparations, and they meander through the corridors of the citadel without a clear destination, speaking in hushed tones. The halls are deserted, anyways, and by unspoken agreement, no one wishes to discuss such a somber topic in the comfort of someone’s chambers.

Merlin only half-listens. After all, he’ll find out tomorrow what they decide.

Then there’s subtle shift in the conversation—a change in tone, a slight hesitation to Arthur’s so far steady strides—and Merlin finds his focus drawn back in.

“Permission to speak freely?” Lancelot is asking.

Merlin waits for the _sire_ that should be added to the end of that question, but it never comes. Do the Knights know, then? Have they seen the way Arthur flinches at any mention of his title, his name—do they understand why?

“Of course.”

“I’ve been meaning to say this ever since—well.” Lancelot never looks unsure of himself, and he doesn’t now, voice calm and steady, but the slight pause tells Merlin he’s carefully considering his next words. “And I know you won’t believe me, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Out with it, Lancelot,” Arthur snaps, coming to a stop, though he sounds more weary than irritated.

Maybe Lancelot hears it too, because his expression doesn’t waver. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Arthur jerks like he’s been slapped.

And maybe he has been, with the steadfast, earnest certainty plain in Lancelot’s words and on his face, the same certainty in what is good and noble and _right_ that earned him a place in Camelot’s ranks to begin with.

“I appreciate that,” Arthur says blandly, but a child could tell he doesn’t believe a word of it.

Lancelot shakes his head. “To die in battle, in service of the Kingdom, is a Knight’s greatest honor.” His smile, though creased with pain, is small and real. “The men who died did so valiantly, honorably. Do not tarnish their memory by placing their sacrifice on your conscience.”

A beat.

“I should’ve protected them,” Arthur says hoarsely, and that admission itself is a testament to the high regard in which he holds Lancelot. “It was my duty to protect them, and I failed.”

“It is your duty to protect _Camelot_ , as it was theirs.” Lancelot’s voice softens. “As it was Leon’s to protect you.”

Arthur’s expression turns thunderous. “Do not—“

Lancelot continues, unperturbed. “He would not have changed a thing, and we both know it.”

“You cannot know such a thing,” Arthur whispers, the anger gone as quick as it came.

“Leon was—“

“ _Stop_. Please.” Arthur’s voice comes out strangled, though there’s still an unmistakable vein of authority folded into the plea.

A long silence follows, during which Arthur stands like his spine is melded to a pole, stiff and straight, and Lancelot merely watches him with an inscrutable expression. Some silent communication must pass between them that Merlin can’t make out, because all of a sudden Lancelot is inclining his head with a murmured, “Until tomorrow”—there’s still a _sire_ missing, its absence ringing even louder than the spoken words—and he’s gone.

As soon as Lancelot’s footsteps fade, Arthur sags against the corridor wall, exhales sharply, runs a hand down his face. He looks older, Merlin realizes suddenly, even though he’s been gone only weeks, and the torches lining the stone halls do nothing to hide the lines etched deeper into his skin now than they were just a month ago. There’s a visible struggle playing out on his face, Lancelot’s words clearly warring with an innate instinct— _my men, my duty—_ and Arthur doesn’t meet his eyes, but Merlin is sure of what he’d find in them.

Anguish. Guilt. Grief. Pain.

Resolve.

Merlin aches to take his hand but holds back, knows this isn’t the place. Anyone walking past could see and then where would they be?

Except—

“Merlin,” Arthur croaks out, the syllables drawn and rumbled in the way only Arthur can ever manage. “Come here?”

And maybe it’s the way Arthur says it, like a question, like there could ever be a doubt, like Merlin would ever wish to be somewhere other than at his side—

Or maybe it’s the way Arthur suddenly looks so _human_ , standing in an unlaced white tunic with his hair still covered in the battlefield, a slight tremble to the corner of his mouth like he’s holding on by little more than a thread—

But Merlin hardly thinks before stepping forward and pressing their lips into a kiss.

As far as kisses go, it’s light and quick and chaste, just _hello_ and _I missed you_ , and he pulls away before the heavy, frantic desperation of _I thought I might lose you_ seeps in. But he can’t stop himself from tangling his fingers in the nape of Arthur’s neck as they both draw back, half out of instinct, and half out of a sheer inability to let go. Arthur’s eyes are closed, almost like he’s savoring the moment, almost like he doesn’t want to be reminded they’re too exposed here in the middle of the citadel to be anything more than master-and-servant, and Merlin doesn’t dream of letting go.

Anyone could see. Even matted as he is with blood and grime, clothed in only a half-laced tunic, anyone could identify their King by the torchlight, and maybe identify the gangly boy who follows the King around like a second shadow. Anyone who saw would know.

 _Let them see_.

But then there’s a distant thumping sound, heavy footsteps coming closer, and Arthur’s eyes fly open in alarm. Merlin drops his hand.

Someday, perhaps.

**

What Arthur really needs is a bath, but it’s far too late to rouse any servants to prepare one, so they make do with a washcloth and a bucket of stale, frigid water—though Merlin heats it to just under lukewarm when Arthur’s back is turned, because ice cold water is a poor way to be welcomed back home.

Arthur shucks off his tunic and trousers and sits on a stool in nothing but his smalls, arms draped against the edge of the bathing tub and crossed to make a resting spot for his head. Merlin swallows and absolutely does _not_ waste several seconds admiring the long, broad expanse of Arthur’s back, coiled with muscle and rippling every time he shifts.

“Admiring the view?” Arthur snaps—in a different situation, it would be smug and teasing, an invitation—but today there’s nothing playful about it, and Merlin bites down the cheeky retort that automatically rises in the back of his throat to get started.

He dips the washcloth in the bucket, wrings out the excess water, and runs the cloth across the nape of Arthur’s neck in long, firm strokes. Each swipes removes another layer of grime, and he continues until the skin is pink and nearly raw before moving on to the next spot. It’s rougher than he might’ve been if he hadn’t seen Arthur after the battle with Caerleon, scrubbing himself like he wanted to shed into new _layer_ of skin.

Merlin has never asked, specifically, why this is something Arthur needs, but after the next skirmish—wasn’t quite a battle, but Arthur returned covered in a coat of blood that wasn’t his—he took the washcloth from Arthur’s hands and it became, ever since, just another one of those unspoken little things between them.

Maybe that’s why he settles into a comfortable daze, rinsing the dirt from Arthur’s hair, his arms, his legs, careful not to get his bandages wet, and it takes several minutes before he notices that Arthur is shaking. He stops his ministrations with his heart in his throat, and in the absence of the washcloth’s _squelch_ , the slight hitching of Arthur’s breath is all too loud.

He’s _crying_ , Merlin realizes with a start.

“Hey,” he says softly, tentatively, but Arthur gives the slightest shake of his head from where it’s still buried in his arms, and Merlin takes that as _not now_. So he continues, making quick work of the remainder of Arthur’s shoulders and back, the whole while humming under his breath an old tune they used to sing while plowing the fields back in Ealdor. He’s a bit horrid and more than a bit off-key, but it fills the silence enough that Arthur gets at least a semblance of privacy, and that was the point, anyways.

“You’re a terrible singer, Merlin,” Arthur scoffs when they’re done.

But what matters is that he sounds composed and cocksure, no trace of tears anywhere in his voice, and Merlin only smiles.

They speak a language of unspoken words, always have, and Merlin has never had any trouble reading between Arthur’s lines. There’s gratitude there, buried beneath walls of snark and sarcasm and long-honed defense mechanisms, plain if you know how to listen for it.

For a moment, it feels just like any other night.

“Bed?” he asks once they’ve both changed into nightclothes (which for Arthur is his bloody distracting bare torso)—and Arthur _should_ raise an eyebrow in response to say _obviously, look how we’re dressed_ and then tumble into his bed with the proprietary ease of someone who owns the thing.

But instead he hardly reacts, staring at the sheets with an impenetrable marble mask of _nothingness_ for an expression, distant in a way that Merlin doesn’t know how to breach. There’s a sort of intangible tension to him, like a frantic swarm of insects are humming and whirring just beneath his skin but he can’t afford to move, and the profile of him, blank and vacant and _still_ , settles like a lump of cold porridge in Merlin’s stomach.

Arthur is motion and energy, a roaring flame that burns brighter where others dim, magnetic in a way that draws you in without your knowledge. Not this...statue, drawn and haggard and pale, gray where he should blaze red and gold.

But such is grief and guilt and the burden of the throne, and Merlin understands better than most what it is to bear the weight of others’ lives on your shoulders.

“Bed,” he says more firmly when Arthur remains rooted to the spot, and maybe that’s what he needs—someone else to make the decisions, even just for a moment—because Arthur responds immediately, clambering into the bed without another moment’s hesitation.

He even lets out a little moan as he settles on the mattress, the relived delight of a man who’s been sleeping on the ground for a few weeks too many, and Merlin is halfway to a chuckle before it catches in his throat.

At this angle, the scar on Arthur’s side is menacing under the candlelight, and the sight of it steals the breath straight from his lungs.

A few inches...

He snuffs out the candles, pulls the curtains shut, flops onto the bed, and tries not to think about it.

Instead, he pulls the sheets over them both, covering Arthur’s wounds— _out of sight, out of mind,_ as they say—and studies his face.

All kingliness stripped away, Arthur is gaunt and stiff and visibly _not okay_ beside him, profoundly mortal in a way that very few will ever see. Merlin treasures it, despite the circumstances, that the labyrinth of walls Arthur has been operating behind all evening are fracturing. Slowly, perhaps, but that’s just how Arthur is, and he’s more than willing to wait.

Merlin knows that if Arthur truly didn’t want to let him in, he wouldn’t even see the cracks—only the stark, impenetrable fortress that greets the rest of the world.

Arthur won’t meet his eyes, lying on his back and gazing intently at the ceiling like it holds all the answers he seeks. But Merlin feels fingers interlace with his own beneath the covers, squeezing, and he squeezes back like a lifeline. _I’m here_.

It isn’t enough.

Merlin watches Arthur out of the corner of his eye, sees the tension slowly bleed out of his shoulders and the set of his jaw slacken as the minutes tick by, but the thinly-concealed anguish written across his face never softens, never wavers. He sees the way exhaustion ceaselessly tugs at Arthur’s eyelids, but he wrenches them open again and again through what must be sheer power of will.

At some point, Arthur makes a strangled sound deep in his throat, like a wounded animal—Merlin refuses to think of it as a whimper—and that more than anything seals it.

They need more, both of them, but he knows Arthur won’t ask.

Merlin pushes himself upright and slides back to lean against the bed frame, careful not to dislodge their tangled fingers. The searing warmth of Arthur’s hand in his is like a beacon, firm and grounding, and not even the gods themselves could make him let go.

He reaches out with his free hand to give Arthur’s shoulder a feather-light tug, and says softly, “Come here.”

It’s an invitation, and one that Arthur accepts so quickly his chest hurts at the thought of Arthur spending the past hour needing this but unable to ask for it. He pulls Arthur close until they’re pressed up against each other too tight to tell apart, repositioning their entangled fingers so he can feel the beat of Arthur’s heart against his wrist.

“Can we—“ Arthur breaks off, voice shaking a little, and Merlin’s heart clenches.

“You can ask me for anything. You know that.” He traces a circle against the back of Arthur’s hand, an absent, familiar caress.

A beat. Then—because have actions have always come easier than words, between them—Arthur shifts and maneuvers them around so that when they settle, Arthur is cocooned in Merlin’s arms, head on his chest.

“Is this okay?” Arthur asks. The sound is muffled by the fabric of Merlin’s tunic, but not enough that he doesn’t hear the little tremor of doubt.

“ _Anything_ ,” Merlin repeats, and feels Arthur finally relax against him.

It really should be strange, sitting like this, what with Arthur’s larger frame and his own near-inability to stay still for longer than a few minutes at a time, but it simply feels—comfortable. He likes seeing the rhythmic rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, likes being able to smooth a thumb over the dip of his neck when those steady breaths turn sharp and ragged, likes the warmth that seeps into his skin everywhere they touch.

Once, he would’ve thought it preposterous that Arthur could be anything other than pushy and demanding in a relationship, as entitled to having his way in bed as he was out of it. But he’s learned a great deal about Arthur Pendragon since those early days, and one of them is this—Arthur doesn’t know how to ask for things he wants.

As a child, as a _Prince_ , he learned to take what he was entitled to and take it without hesitation—it’s one of the many reasons they spent nearly every minute at each other’s throats, in the beginning. But as far as Merlin can tell, Arthur never learned how to _ask_ for those things he wasn’t outrightly entitled to, things he wanted which were others’ to give. Comfort. Forgiveness. Sex. Companionship. So he simply—didn’t get those things.

It’s a sign of how far they’ve come, now, that Arthur can openly ask to be held, albeit with fewer words and a little prompting.

They stay like that for a long time, just sitting, just breathing, until a shudder wracks through Arthur’s body.

“I can’t—“ Arthur breaks off on a sob, trying both to hold it together and let himself fall apart, and Merlin only folds his body tighter to the curve of Arthur’s spine, pressing a kiss to the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. _Take your time_. “I can’t stop,” Arthur whispers, voice like splintered glass.

There‘s a long silence after that, and Merlin simply waits, running a hand lightly through Arthur’s hair when it doesn’t seem like any more words are forthcoming. The silence doesn’t worry him.

If Arthur didn’t want to talk, truly didn’t want to be comforted, then they wouldn’t even be here now, curled up close enough that Merlin can see when the first tear slides down Arthur’s cheek. Arthur would already have thrown himself into a late-night training session or picked an inane fight between them or dismissed Merlin until the morning on some flimsy pretense of wanting privacy. Anything to get distance, create space, and continue some self-imposed, internal berating until he felt sufficiently punished.

There’s nobody better than Arthur at that sort of silent self-flagellation, putting up a mask while tearing himself right to pieces on the inside, and Merlin doesn’t always know how it manifests except in hindsight. But he does know how it _doesn’t_ manifest, and that’s this. If Arthur can accept kisses and gentle touches and quiet _closeness_ , that’s more than enough for now. The words will come.

So he waits.

“Can’t stop what?” Merlin prompts eventually when the quiet continues to stretch on, because sometimes Arthur just needs a little nudge in the right direction for the thoughts to tumble out. But he punctuates the question with another caress, trailing gentle fingers through blond fringe to say _take all the time you need_ , because it doesn’t matter if it takes one more minute or fifty or three hundred for the words to formulate. There’s no rush here in their bed, a haven away from the duty and responsibility and propriety of the outside world.

Ultimately, it takes thirteen.

“I killed hundreds of men.”

Arthur stiffens as soon as he says it, as though bracing himself for an instant reproach, and Merlin’s heart aches. It‘s Uther’s training, all of it, the self-flagellation and hesitance to accept comfort and constant expectation of punishment like he’s standing before a judge rather than in the arms of the man who loves him more than anything in the world, and Merlin sometimes wishes he could bring Uther back from the dead just to make him suffer for it.

But he merely squeezes Arthur’s hand, knowing there’s more to hear. _Go on._

When Arthur continues, his tone is bleak. “I don’t know how many by my own sword. Two dozen. More, perhaps. Lot’s army was thrice the size of ours, and his men, they were relentless. Brutal. But still men, with wives and children—men who never wronged me, only served a different crest. No different than my men, who I couldn’t—” Arthur’s voice cracks. “We lit so many pyres, Merlin. And every time I close my eyes, I can’t stop seeing them, the blood, the ash, the _bodies_ —”

Merlin closes his eyes to stave off his own tears at the mangled pain in Arthur’s voice.

“A King is meant to protect his men. But I killed them. One word, one order— _attack,_ and they were dead. If I’d just been wiser, a better negotiator, realized Lot’s machinations sooner—” Arthur’s tone drips with self-loathing. “If I’d _just_ —” He breaks off, panting, and tries to pull away from Merlin as though he doesn’t feel he deserves the comfort.

But Merlin only tightens his arms around Arthur, holding him in place, and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“And Leon?” he asks carefully. Sometimes it’s best to get everything out in the open, all at once.

But then a shudder runs up Arthur’s spine and he grinds out, “ _Can’t_ ” in a voice that’s so raw it makes Merlin’s toes curl—and he understands.

There are many things he could say. _It wasn’t your fault. Your did everything you could. Think of the lives you saved. War is brutal._ But Arthur knows all of that already—others would’ve told him, just like Lancelot did, long before he returned home with haunted eyes and jagged edges, flinching at the sound of his name.

Yesterday he might’ve said, _You’re a good man, Arthur Pendragon._

But he learns a little more every day about the enigma that is the man he loves, and right now, he knows none of those platitudes are the right thing to say.

Instead he thinks of Arthur unwilling to ride at the helm of his Knights where a King’s place should be, unable to hear his name or his rank or his title, unable to speak about Leon’s death—not _won’t_ , not _doesn’t want to_ , but _can’t_ , like something is physically impeding him—and Merlin finally _understands_.

“Dollophead,” he says softly, and is inordinately pleased when Arthur remains boneless in his arms, no sign of a flinch. “You absolute dollophead.”

“That’s no way to speak to the _King_ ,” Arthur says, the word curled black with vile despite the rebuke itself bearing no sting.

And that’s what it is, isn’t it? A King can grieve but he cannot afford to _mourn_ once the funeral is over and the ashes have settled into the river. A King can pause but he cannot afford to _stop_ when the needs of the Kingdom must be met the next day _._ A King can cry but he cannot afford to _sob_ the kind of wrecked, heaving sobs that tear themselves from broken hearts. A King can break but he cannot afford to be _broken_.

A King must be strong. A King must bear the burdens of his people over the burdens of his own heart. A King _must—_

The lines between what a King can and cannot afford to do are so fine, so fragile, that normally Arthur chooses not to skirt them at all, but loss does not bow to any title. It grows and engulfs, a black shroud reaching into the farthest tendrils of the soul and sparing no man, King or otherwise.

“I’ll say it again, then. _Dollophead_. _Clotpole_. _Prat_. _Arse._ I can go on—“ Arthur lets out a choked sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, like he understands what Merlin’s doing and maybe it’s exactly what he needs. “—but what I’m saying is, you don’t have to be the King with me.”

He thinks of Arthur and his men—a brotherhood born of hours and hours on the training ground and the battlefield, each so sure of the other they often communicated without words, thrumming with loyalty to Camelot and its people but one another above all—and can imagine the ugly, twisting wound of that loss, only gouged deeper by Leon, a brother in all but blood. To add to that pain the guilt, however unfounded, of having caused it all—it’s enough to fell any man.

And yet by tomorrow, Arthur will have patched himself together enough to preside over fifty-three honorary funerals, and by the week after, enough to force a smile that doesn’t wobble, and by the month after, enough that no one will notice the pain branded like a scar on his heart.

That’s what happened after Uther, when Arthur did not mourn, did not stop, did not sob, did not ever get the chance to break and be remade whole. That’s what always happens because that’s what’s expected of a King.

Merlin wants this time to be different.

So he takes a breath, summons every ounce of eloquence he can conjure, and tries to give shape to the words that beat like truth in his heart. “As King, you can’t grieve for your Knights without feeling responsible for the whole war. You can’t grieve for Leon because if you start, you think you might never stop, and a King can’t be weak like that. But you _dollophead_ , it’s only me here. Forget about everything else, for one night, and let yourself just be Arthur.”

“And if I can’t be Arthur?” he asks so, so, so quietly that Merlin wants to cut open his chest and make a space for Arthur to shelter there, if only to never hear that raw, plaintive note in his voice again.

“Then just _be_. Whatever that looks like. Let go of the reigns, the rank, the responsibility, and just be.”

“I’ll drown in it.” The words are a raspy whisper, murmured low and swallowed by the night, but Merlin hears all the same.

“And I’ll catch you.” When Arthur twists to look at him with glassy eyes, desperate and vulnerable but tinged with the faintest sliver of hope, Merlin realizes he has never meant anything more than he does this. Being _Arthur_ has always come tied up with the duties of being a _Pendragon_ , and it’s so clear to see the incessant weight of that name, as heavy as any crown, slowly crushing him. “Let go, and I’ll catch you. I promise.”

Arthur crumples.

He shudders into Merlin’s chest, shaking with the force of his tears, and Merlin holds him like an anchor as he finally, finally breaks.

**

They do, eventually, talk about Leon.

It’s the small hours of morning, the pervasive darkness starting to recede just enough that Merlin can make out the planes of Arthur’s face and the bloodshot red in his eyes from forcefully keeping himself awake, when Arthur abruptly breaks the silence.

“He took a knife in the stomach.”

If Merlin had any doubt who Arthur was talking about, it would have been resolved immediately by the sharp, twisting pain couched in his next words.

“It was mine to take,” Arthur chokes out. “Mine. Not his.”

Arthur forces the words out like each one costs him a part of his soul, but even as his voice thins, then splinters, then fades to little more than a cracked whisper, he continues on. Maybe he wants to do this tonight—no rank, no responsibility, just _be—_ because he knows he must again slip behind the regal mask come morning, or maybe it’s simply Arthur’s characteristic determination in action yet again, but either way, he doesn’t stop speaking until the whole story is laid bare.

“He made it through the worst of the fighting, did you know that? The bloodiest battles, the night raids, the days huddled and hunted like prey in the forest. He made it to the last day. It was just after Lot’s surrender was announced, and we thought we were safe.” Arthur’s bleak, wretched laugh cuts Merlin deeper than any blade ever could. “He and I and some Knights were searching for any more wounded men on the battlefield, any more survivors. Turns out there was only one. An Escetian, who lunged from the ground, knife in hand, aiming at my turned back. Leon must have seen—he was yards away, but next thing I know, I’m pushed to the dirt and he‘s bleeding— _my King_ , he says to me. His dying breath. _My King_.”

The last words are barely a whisper, barely a breath, just a crackled half-sound before Arthur falls silent.

“He saved your life.”

“Damn him,” Arthur snarls, but there is only pain behind it, no anger.

The dawn has broken enough, now, that Merlin can see when Arthur swipes furiously at the tears rolling down his face. He catches Arthur’s wrist, partly to stop him, partly to feel the strong, steady beat of Arthur’s pulse under the pads of his fingers. Leon gave him this, a greater and more wonderful gift than he’s ever deserved, and he can never repay him enough.

“You don’t mean that,” he replies softly, releasing Arthur’s wrist to brush away the tears drying on his cheek, far gentler than Arthur would ever be with himself.

“No,” Arthur admits eventually. “But I don’t want men to die for me, Merlin. I don’t want their lives in protection of mine. I am a man, nothing more.”

“You are not just a man.”

Arthur pushes up to face him. “If you say I am a King, so help me—“

“You are Arthur,” Merlin says simply, and Arthur’s mouth snaps shut. “Not Arthur Pendragon, none of that. Just Arthur. Leon did not die for the King, he died for _his_ King. Not because of your title or your—it was you. Just you.”

“He shouldn’t have done it.”

And Merlin knows Arthur truly believes that, just as he knows he does not. It would be hypocritical, after that.

He knows he would throw himself before any blade, lay his life at the feet of any enemy, if doing so would give Arthur another minute of life. It’s a certainty that used to scare him, but he sees it in the way Arthur rules and leads and _cares_ , the way the soul of Camelot lives and breathes through him, the way the magic of the Earth hums and sings and envelops him wherever he goes—Albion itself claims Arthur as her own. Who is he to resist, when even the land cannot?

Merlin voices none of that. Arthur is not ready, certainly not in this moment, to hear it.

Instead he says, “Maybe not. But we must allow others to make their own choices, and afterward, can only try to live with them as best we can.” Arthur’s mouth is pressed in a firm line like he’s trying desperately to stop himself from arguing, and Merlin presses on, gentle. “Your guilt won’t change his choice. He gave his life for you to live, so _live_ , and honor his sacrifice rather than despair over it.”

Arthur doesn’t respond. But he also doesn’t fight it the next time his eyes flutter closed, only curls deeper into Merlin’s chest, and though it’s not acceptance, not really, it’s a start.

**

The funeral is a solemn, dignified, lavish affair.

It’s horrible.

Merlin only stays because Arthur cannot leave, and listens to his poignant speech only long enough to wonder when he had time to come up with it. The poetic language is more a show for the gathered citizens and noblemen than anything else, because Arthur’s Knights, standing and fallen, do not need pomp and ceremony and pretty words to know his affection for them. His gratitude for their service. His grief at their loss.

Arthur lights two pyres—an honorary one, for all the men they lost in the war, and one for Kay. His hands do not shake, and Merlin is proud.

As much as he treasures seeing Arthur’s vulnerability when they are alone together, treasures when his carefully-crafted walls finally crumble, out here he’s glad for them. They ensure that the people will not see their King falter, and perhaps more importantly, that neither will the courtiers and nobles. For all of Uther’s wrongs, Merlin knows this much—he taught Arthur how to survive the brutality of court politics, and he taught him well.

The flames roar to life on the wood and Arthur steps away, retreating to where Lancelot and Gwaine stand at the forefront of the Knights. From his vantage point to the side of the men, Merlin has the perfect view to realize the sword hanging at Arthur’s hip is not Excalibur—it’s slightly longer, like it was forged for a taller man, with a plain blade and black leather hilt.

Merlin doesn’t need to ask to know who it belonged to.

It’s a fitting tribute.

**

When Merlin startles awake, the other side of the bed is cold.

His stomach lurches painfully, and he’s out of the room in a flurry of limbs, barely remembering to wrap a cloak around his bare shoulders before bolting through the door.

A flash of gold eyes and he’s hidden from view, another flash and even his footfalls are silent on the tiles. The castle is deserted save for the night guards, and his concealment allows him to dart past them easily.

Heart pounding like a drum, he checks all of the usual spots first—the kitchens, warm from the hearth even when the rest of the castle shivers; the west tower, overlooking the lower town, the hilly slopes beyond, and the stars themselves; the training ground, pitch dark but with a lantern holder and practice dummy conveniently nestled into a corner—but finds only cold, empty air.

Then as he passes the corridor outside the throne room, a flicker of moonlight spilling through the slightly-ajar door catches his eye. Those doors are never left open at night, always locked and bolted for fear of vandals stealing the statues and fine wood chairs, or even—one memorable time during Uther’s reign—attempting to scrape away chunks of gold from the throne itself.

Merlin pushes the door open wider, wincing at the low groan it makes as it moves, and nearly wilts in relief at seeing a familiar outline hunched inside. He drops his concealments and enters the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

The Round Table shimmers in the silver moonlight, an eerie, almost chilling quality to it without the Knights gathered around. The room itself feels harsh and ethereal, bathed in an oppressive darkness barely softened here and there by patches of moonlight.

Beyond the Round Table, crouched in one of those patches and visible only in angled lines and shadows, is Arthur.

He‘s kneeling before the throne, head bowed, and his every muscle is still as a statue as Merlin approaches.

“You weren’t in bed,” Merlin says quietly, coming to a stop behind Arthur. It’s too silent for anything above a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” Arthur’s soft, raspy tone distracts him for a moment from what a spectacular non-answer that is. He opens his mouth to ask again— _what are you doing here in the middle of the night?—_ but something tells him he won’t get an answer, and he accepts the redirection.

“It’s okay. I never sleep well when you’re not there.” There’s something about the relative privacy of the darkness, their voices floating in the air almost disembodied from their physical selves, that makes the admission easy. Still, it’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to putting the past month of long, sleepless nights, cold and alone and plagued with images of Arthur bleeding out on a battlefield, into words.

But Arthur seems to read between the lines just fine, the ensuing silence heavy with understanding.

They don’t say anything more. There’s nothing to be said, really.

Instead, he sinks to the floor a few paces away from Arthur, beside the near wall, and closes his eyes. Arthur hasn’t asked him to stay, but there’s nowhere else Merlin can bear to be right now—he’s never letting Arthur out of his sight again if he can help it—and the thought of leaving never even crosses his mind.

The cold stone tiles dig into his knees like blades of ice, and he wonders if this is penance or prayer.

**

As the weeks go by, the war, though long over, does not end. It lives on every time Arthur closes his eyes, in the way his muscles tighten and his breath quickens and lips tremble around a silent scream when he wakes in the dead of night, trembling in Merlin’s arms.

Sometimes Arthur goes back to sleep, though it’s a fitful, restless sleep that draws shadows under his eyes and robs his sword of speed on the training ground. Other times, Arthur simply curls his fingers into Merlin’s back with his eyes somewhere faraway and they stay just like that, the low, lulling cadence of their breaths the only sound in the room until the first streaks of dawn break across the sky.

**

The sun makes it better, chases away the dark and the dirt and the cold, the images of twisted bodies burning to ash. Arthur smiles a little warmer, speaks to his petitioners a little longer, sets his shoulders a little looser, when the sun is shining high and bright.

When Merlin first realizes, he does not allow rain nor cloud nor storm in Camelot for two weeks.

It might have been longer except Arthur says to him as he straps on his sword belt one morning, tone perfectly calm, “Don’t let the crops die, Merlin.” And then he’s out the door with Leon’s sword strapped to his side, steady and collected as though he hasn’t just turned Merlin’s world on its axis.

Merlin releases his magic that very evening, and rain batters Camelot like the beginnings of a flood all through the night. Arthur shoots him thunderous looks throughout his petitions the next morning, all of which pertain to property damage as a result of the rain, but Merlin can’t even find it in himself to be upset because Arthur _knows_ , somehow, and though they haven’t talked about it, it doesn’t seem like he’s going to lose his head.

Still, he hardly draws breath all day, fear like a set of iron shackles around his lungs.

That night he spills his secrets into Arthur’s shoulder, the words he’s kept locked inside for so long— _I have magic. I was born with it, and I use it for you. Only for you.—_ and waits for the axe to fall because it can’t be this simple, it can’t.

But when Arthur only runs fingers through his hair and kisses away the tears he can’t seem to stop crying and holds him even closer to his perpetual warmth, Merlin has to ask. “You’re not going to—”

He stops. What he should be asking are the practical questions— _To burn me at dawn? To hire a new manservant? To banish me from Camelot?—_ but what he really wants to know is simple. “Do you still love me?” he whispers, voice breaking, and closes his eyes because he can’t bear to see Arthur face if he says no.

When there’s only a long silence in response, his heart shatters into a million pieces.

Then—

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur says roughly, and Merlin’s eyes fly open.

Arthur’s cheeks are wet and his lips are pinched in a frown, but his fingers are so, so gentle when they reach up and trace the curve of his ear. “I’ve known you had magic for a long time. I kept waiting for you to tell me, to trust me, but you never did.”

 _I’m sorry,_ he wants to say. _I’m so sorry_. His mouth shapes around the words, but he can’t get out more than half-broken sounds.

But Arthur must hear him anyway, because his frown softens into the outline of something that feels—could it be?—like forgiveness. “I’m angry you didn’t tell me. I’m angry you put yourself in danger for me. I’m angry at how you must have suffered all these years. But don’t you ever doubt that I love you. How can you think I— _Merlin_.”

His name in Arthur’s voice, fierce and desperate and _cherished_ all in one—it’s everything. In the face of it, he’s helpless to do anything but fit their mouths together and let himself be swept beneath the waves of the relentless tide that is destiny, that is home, that is _Arthur_ , and after that it’s simple.

**

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe, love. It’s okay.”

Arthur turns in his arms, flushed and coated in sweat, but doesn’t wake. Merlin cards a hand through Arthur’s hair, smoothing it back from where it sticks to his forehead, and counts that as a win. Sleep is a rare thing these days, and troubled though it may be, every minute Arthur gets is precious.

“It’s okay, love,” he whispers to the shell of Arthur’s ear, and drops his propped elbow to settle down on the mattress again when Arthur finally stills. “Sleep now, you’re safe.”

They never used to do pet names, almost as a rule. The furthest Merlin ever went was a pointed, sickly sweet _darling_ when Arthur fussed over him like a nagging fishwife, and Arthur never really ventured beyond a fond, exasperated _idiot_ on those few occasions when he was too amused to be properly irritated. They were just Merlin and Arthur, and it worked.

But sometimes—sometimes names are too heavy. They ask too much.

So these days—only in Arthur’s chambers and only when they’re alone, but still—these days, Arthur likes when Merlin calls him _love_.

And he _does_ like it, Merlin knows, as much as he won’t admit to that if ever asked. The way his cheeks tinge pink and his lips turn soft at the corners every time it happens speaks for itself.

He likes it, Merlin thinks, because more than anything it’s a reminder that he doesn’t have to be a King here, or a Pendragon, or even Arthur, with all the weight and duty each of those names carry. He’s can just _be_ , whatever that looks like, and be loved.

 _You are loved_ , Merlin hopes he hears in the endearment. _You are so, so loved exactly as you are._

And sometimes—when the world lies in fractured pieces beyond the sanctuary of their bed, when the crown feels a heavy, inescapable burden, when the whispers of guilt and doubt always lurking in the shadows creep into the light—sometimes that reminder fights back the demons just a little more, and it’s enough.


End file.
